


Art/Words: And into the forest I go, to lose my mind and find my soul.

by LFB72



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Art, Arthurian, Canon Temporary Character Death, Crystal Cave, Episode: s05e13 The Diamond of the Day, Excalibur, Friends to Lovers, Happy Ending, Legends, M/M, Magic, Modern Era, References to Canon, Reincarnation, Traditional Media, Trapped, myths and legends, trapped in a tree
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-02
Updated: 2019-02-02
Packaged: 2019-09-21 03:08:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,413
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17035426
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LFB72/pseuds/LFB72
Summary: dod yn ôl at fy nghoed– to return to a balanced state of mind, to return to my treesThe trees seem to whisper his name. The wood surrounds his childhood home; ancient and dark and forbidding, older than the house, older than the hills… He remembers this place like and illicit friend that haunts his dreams from a bygone age before he was born, before he grew up, before he was sent away. He is only Pendragon left here now, there is no one to hold him back, and no one to push him forward.The trees seem to whisper his name and he is compelled to move as if there is some invisible force making him go on. It is imperative that he continue but he couldn’t say why.Chapter One: story with embedded artChapter Two: art only, four pieces traditional art and a divider)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Gilli_ann](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gilli_ann/gifts).



> Happy Holidays Gilli_ann!  
> You had so many wonderful prompts it was hard to choose but the one I went for in the end conjured some really strong, visceral imagery. I was only going to draw but got carried away and wrote some words as well - I hope that’s ok. I’ve been a bit ‘fast and loose’ with the Arthurian legends but in my defence, they did that with the show. I’ve researched a lot on trees and woodland during this process and I hope you like what I’ve come up with and it pushes all the right buttons.
> 
> A huge thank you to my beta art elf and word elves who have been amazing and  such a massive help. CLea2011, Camelittle, Wasp and Merlinsdeheune
> 
> The title quote is from John Muir and I found the Welsh quote by accident a day or so after I’d finished writing and thought it was perfect for this story.
> 
> Finally many thanks to the mods for organising this wonderful winter fest.

 

[ ](https://imgur.com/MnPEBfa)

**And into the forest I go, to lose my mind and find my soul.**

 

The Pendragon Estate is built on limestone: it has strange rock formations, secret caves and ancient trees. Their snarled roots actively seek out the veins of iron ore in the earth, producing a fantastic and eerie landscape. This wonderful place belongs to Arthur now. He is the sole heir. He just wished it had not taken the death of his father to make him finally return and claim what is rightfully his.

The estate stretches over acres of woodland and contains oak, beech, ash, lime and yew trees. Some of the yew trees are thought to be thousands of years old – as old as the legends he’s named after. Rumour has it, this place was the inspiration for many of those tales.

In retrospect, it may have been prudent to tell someone where he is, especially since there is no phone signal. _Who would he tell?_ His father is dead, and Arthur has been away so long he’s lost touch with everyone he knew or could trust in England.

He has discovered that electrical devices don't work here and the canopy is so dense in places no one could find him should anything happen. Nothing _is_ going to happen, that’s absurd; he’s young, fit, athletic and he knows this place – or at least, he did know it. The knot in his stomach and slight tremor of his hands mean nothing. Everything is fine. Everything is absolutely dandy.

The way ahead is obscured by thick foliage and it would make more sense to turn back. Arthur does not want to go back. He can’t. He is compelled to move forward as if there is some invisible force making him go on. It is imperative that he continue but he couldn’t say why.

Arthur picks a sturdy branch from the ground. Gripping it firmly, he makes a graceful arc through the air with his arm. He brings his weapon down, cutting a swath through the undergrowth as easily and cleanly as any blade. The action feels natural and familiar.

Adjusting the makeshift wooden sword in his hand, Arthur attacks the dense vegetation again. Large ferns and bushes fall away in his wake as if parting for royalty and forming a path that is inviting him to follow. The breeze rustles the leaves and it sounds as if someone is whispering his name.

_“Arthur.”_

He pauses, listening intently, a shiver passing down his spine. There is nothing more and he begins walking again.

_“Arthur,”_ say the trees, but he doesn’t hear it this time.

It has been years since Arthur has been in these woods. This was his playground as a youngster, when he spent hours running around and battling imaginary creatures. Out here he wasn’t the child that was never good enough, the one that had caused his mother’s death and destroyed his father’s happiness. Here he was in a different world, he was a fearless knight, even a king – the legendary one he was named after. This was where he’d been happy. This had been his realm.

His father had never approved of Arthur’s play, suggesting that perhaps if he’d focused more on learning his letters than make-believe he wouldn’t struggle so much with his studies. If Arthur worked harder, he wouldn’t be behind and such a disgrace to the Pendragon name.

Father forbade any exploration of the infamous limestone cave that was supposed to exist in the heart of the woods – it was too dangerous. There had been reports of strange things happening there over the years, only Arthur had never learnt what they were. The rumours had never put him off, if anything the thrill of danger made him want to go there more. Despite extensive searching, he never found the elusive cave and he’d even begun to wonder if it existed at all or was merely a story meant to frighten him.

Despite the eerie appearance of the trees, whose twisted, moss-covered limbs could easily be dragons and beasts of fantasy, not once had he felt wary in these woods (as he knew the staff sometimes did). On the contrary, it was the one place he’d felt truly alive.

Arthur left England at eleven, attending a prestigious boarding school in the states – somewhere that could _‘deal with his literacy problems once and for all’._ Arthur had not wanted to go and caused a full stage panic when he ran away and spent the night in the woods. When he’d finally been found, Arthur had begged his father to stay, he’d promised to work harder and that he would prove himself, but it made no difference. Uther had merely wiped his son’s eyes and said that he would eventually understand. This intervention, going abroad, it would be the making of him.

As it turned out, being abroad _was_ the making of Arthur Pendragon. In his years away, Arthur had thrived, but his relationship with his father had not. Time and distance did not enhance it. If anything, as Arthur’s confidence, views and outlook on the world grew, they strayed further from Uther’s and as a result there was less and less incentive to return, and less desire to make amends.

And now it was too late.

Uther had a fatal heart attack when Arthur was twenty-five. By the time his father had died, Arthur had largely overcome his academic difficulties and was the successful son Uther had always craved. Arthur was finally worthy of the Pendragon name and Estate that had been left to him. But he did not want the mantle, nor to be responsible for such a huge property. Arthur had rejected it at first. It was his father’s love he had wanted not bricks and mortar. Of course, he had cared when he was younger and would have done anything to win his father’s approval then. But this was now, and things had changed. He had his own life and did not need his old one. But fate had other ideas, he might not choose it, but he could not escape it. Arthur needed to finalise his father's will and estate. Solicitors and lawyers all agreed, he had to be in person to do it – he had to come home.

England is his home. Despite the initial resistance, now that he is here, he is drawn to the place that had made him so happy as a child: those ancient woods that always seem to call his name.

Paperwork and legal documents are a distant memory. Call it foolhardy, but Arthur is determined to find the elusive cave that had been such a failed quest to him when small. As an adult, he expects things to be different, that these immense and mysterious woods would no longer hold the fascination they did to him as a curious child. But he is wrong. If anything the compulsion to explore is stronger than ever.

Arthur stops to catch his breath. He’s been walking for over two hours and needs steady himself and take a break. He leans against tree. It’s yew, easy to identify by its wide girth, reddish bark and gnarled limbs that almost look human. Arthur looks up in awe at the vast canopy of green above him and feels small and insignificant in comparison. Some of the trees have been here for centuries. The yew is steeped in mystery and folk law. It has an association with death and rebirth and it’s not hard to believe this one could be old as the Arthurian legends, whose namesake he shares. Not surprisingly, he has always been fascinated with those stories and to think this tree could have been around at that time is incredible.

“I bet you could tell some tales,” he says, absentmindedly patting the trunk.

He vaguely remembers reading somewhere the bark is toxic but can’t help wanting to run his fingers over the surface. He’s wearing gloves so touches the bark – he can’t stop himself.

_“Arthur.”_

He shrieks, jumping backwards as a sharp pain shoots through his hand. He rips his gloves off examining his throbbing fingers expecting to see a bead of crimson or splinter. There is no blood or thorn embedded in his flesh.

His skin is glowing. _What the..._

Light radiates from the digits of his left-hand. He shakes his upper limb in a panic, turning it over as if he could stop whatever is happening – he can’t. Light begins flowing along his arm like warm golden rivers towards his heart. Arthur convulses in pain, grabbing his side and pitching forward towards the earth. He screams. The pressure in his head is immense, like a grenade getting ready to blow, he desperately clutches the sides of his skull trying to hold everything in.

There is a roar of noise: clashing metal, braying mares and battle cries. Hundreds of images flash through his mind, of red capes, chainmail, men and women on horseback. His father wears a crown, knights in armour, a woman with pale skin, green eyes and jet-black hair another with dark ringlets, caramel skin and dimples. Then there’s the man with angular features, a long straight nose, sharp cheekbones, full lips and bright blue eyes. Arthur knows this man, he’s sure of it. The man looks so sad and tears streak his face. Arthur is struck with the urge to comfort him, but he can’t move, can’t see the outside world, can’t speak – all he can do is listen.

_“Arthur… No! Arthur! Stay with me.”_

Arthur can sense the man close by, can feel his breath on his skin and his long fingers franticly palpating his flesh around his neck, searching for a pulse _._

_“Arthur! Arthur. Come on.”_

The man changes his grip, placing his hands under Arthur’s arm’s and trying to move him but can't.

_“Arthur!”_

Arthur can’t find his voice to reply. He wants to say, ‘it’s alright! I’m alright!’, anything to stop this man’s distress, but he can’t. The man is crying, yelling in a language Arthur does not recognise but his grief is wretched and palpable.

_“O drakon! E male so ftengometta tesd'hup'anankes!”_

The world has gone black.

Arthur feels pressure against his forehead and hot tears splash his face. The man’s breath is warm against his skin, his touch is tender and intimate. Arthur does not want it to end but it does, _what must it be like to feel so loved_? Soon the man is speaking again but not to him, Arthur doesn’t know who his companion is but he hopes it will help.

_“Kilgharrah. I would not have summoned you, if there was any other choice. I have one last favour to ask.”_

The other voice is old, deep and has raspy quality. It too, is laced with sorrow.

_“Merlin. There is nothing you can do.”_

Merlin! Of course, it’s Merlin, how could he forget? Arthur is desperate to open his eyes to see that face once again.

_“I've failed, Kilgharrah!” Merlin says, distraught._

No! Arthur thinks, you were the best thing that ever happened to me, you were the making of me, of Camelot.

_“No, young warlock, for all that you have dreamt of building, has come to pass.”_

_“I can't lose him!”_

You haven’t, I’m here. Merlin! I’m right here!’ No one takes any notice and Arthur can’t move or make himself heard.

The other voice is speaking now. _“Though no man, no matter how great, can know his destiny, some lives have been foretold, Merlin... Arthur is not just a King - he is the Once and Future King. Take heart, for when Albion's need is greatest, Arthur will rise again.”_

Yes! He’s right, I’ll come back, I’ll find you, Merlin. All is silent, he can’t hear them anymore, he can’t hear anything, all is quiet, all is black.

When Arthur comes too, he’s face-down in the dirt. He pulls himself into sitting, he’s shaking and his head is spinning – _what the hell just happened?_

He remembered, that’s what happened.

He was King Arthur, not a mythical fantasy figure but a real person. The bards and poets may have got most of it wrong, may have changed things over time but it was _all_ real; Camelot, the knights, Guinevere and Merlin. Morgana, Mordred, the battle of Camlann. He recalls the fatal stab wound he received and how Merlin had done all in his power – even magic – to save him, but to no avail.

Arthur’s mouth is dry, he tries to swallow as his hands track down his torso to his left side. Just under his ribs where he knows lies a raised purple scar. A mark he was born with turns out to be relic from a fatal wound he had been given centuries ago.

He’s just re-lived those last moments and Merlin had felt so close. Arthur scans the clearing with his gaze but it’s empty. He looks down almost expecting to see chainmail but he is still clothed in jeans and a red hoodie. He rubs his side, the echo of the wound still with him.

Arthur straightens his back and comes up into a stand. He stares at the mighty yew that somehow caused his memories to return and staggers back in shock.

_‘Arthur.’_

The twisted branches no longer merely resemble a human form, they are one. A man whose arms and legs form branches and appear carved from wood but are inseparable from the tree. _It can’t be!_

“Merlin!”

Arthur throws himself at the yew, hands reaching for Merlin’s arms and torso. He pulls at ivy encased limbs. The creeper gives way, leaving red welts on the parts of Merlin which are warm skin. He’s alive yet trapped; Merlin is still fused and part tree. _What’s going on?_ Arthur shakes Merlin’s chest but he barely moves.

“Merlin! Merlin wake up”

Merlin’s eyelids slowly open and Arthur is looking into those bright blue orbs from so long ago.

Merlin blinks and a single tear escapes and roles down his cheek. “Arthur.” He croaks, smiling.

Arthur brushes away moss and pulls at the vines, but he doesn’t want to hurt Merlin or cause any damage.

“What happened? What can I do? How do you I get you out.”

“Magic.”

Merlin has managed to free two fingers on his left hand but it’s not enough – he’s still trapped.

“What are you waiting for? _Use it_ ,” Arthur urges. _“Go on!”_

Nothing happens.

Magic.

King Arthur would have flinched at the word, taken time to adjust and accept, but accept he had done in the end. Arthur’s only regret from that time had been not being able to share it with Merlin.

Modern Arthur’s memories are all mixed up with those of the legends and even if many inaccuracies have crept into the retelling, Merlin being the most powerful magic user ever to exist has become part of the national psyche.

“Use your magic, free yourself,” he pleads.

“I can’t.”

“What do _you mean_ , you can’t? You must!”

“My magic won’t work. To break this spell needs different magic.”

“What!

“Something from the old religion.”

Arthur’s heart sinks. He rubs his eyes clearing his vision. “There is no magic anymore, it’s gone.”

Merlin smiles.

Arthur rubs at his eyes and it’s all he can do to stop the frustration showing on his face. “No, you don’t understand!”

Arthur is almost hysterical now. He does not know how long Merlin has been stuck like this. Written accounts of the mystical Merlin being supposedly trapped in a cave or a tree go back as far as the Middle Ages – _could Merlin have been here that long? Could he have been here since the first time, in Camelot, not reborn in the modern world like Arthur but still living the old one?_ It doesn't bear thinking about and yet the wood has been on his family estate for centuries, the yew is huge. It has started to split and is covered in moss and ivy. He doesn’t know how to break it to Merlin that the time of magic has gone, it doesn’t exist anymore, has not done for eons.

“Not gone, forgotten,” Merlin says, “Magic is part of the earth, the sky, the sea. It is all around, always has been, always will be. The Crystal Cave is birth place of magic and it’s right here.”

“No.” Arthur shakes his head.

He’s searched several times for that damn mystical cave years ago (albeit as a child) but could never find it.

Merlin attempts to move his head but it’s still tethered. “Everything here… is so full of life. Every tree, every leaf, every insect. It's as if the world is vibrating. As if everything is much more than itself.”

Arthur grasps Merlin’s fingers - the two digits that are free at least. He recalls Merlin saying something like this once before although he did not truly understand what Merlin was referring to at the time.

“Even if magic were here, Merlin, I could never feel it the way you do.”

“You don’t have to, Arthur. You only have believe and follow.”

“I don’t understand.”

Merlin’s eyes glow gold for a moment. A second later there is a swirling orb of white-blue light.

“That was you!” Arthur gasps. “You were watching me, helping me?”

“Always.” Merlin confirms ruefully. “Now, go!”

“I can’t leave—”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

“But how will—”

“You will know what to do, Arthur. Do you trust me?”

He pauses but there is no doubt. “Yes.”                  

“Then go, follow the light.”

Arthur hesitates for a moment, not wanting to let Merlin out of his sight for fear of losing him again but the strange will-o'-the-wisp is already darting into the bushes and he must follow.

The light seems determined to drag him through every hedge and thorn bush, but he follows. A couple of times he thought he’d lost it, but it hovers patiently waiting for him to catch up, then is off again.

Arthur tracks the will-o'-the-wisp for about a mile. Eventually the light winks out and Arthur finds himself at a rock face. Greenery springs from its walls, but Arthur can make out a distinct entrance. He’s sure he has been here before, but there was never a cave, just a solid crag.

He pauses looking for any foe that would prevent his quest. There is none: no trap, no resistance.

Arthur searches for something he could use as a torch. But he’s not in Camelot, this is the modern world. He reaches for his phone, but it‘s not necessary; the cave gives off its own illumination.

White crystals are embedded into the walls and ground, giving off an eerie glow. In the centre of the cave is an old friend; Excalibur. The sword is not tarnished by time, her hilt is still gleaming gold and the runes are visible along the shaft. She is buried halfway in the rock.

Over a thousand years ago Arthur pulled Excalibur from the stone and so he will again. With no audience and no wise words, but with purpose and determination. Arthur grasps the hilt, pulls his sword effortlessly from her resting place and holds her aloft.

 

“For the love of Camelot. For Merlin.”

He needs no light to guide him back to Merlin. Excalibur was forged in a dragon’s breath for Arthur Pendragon yet she will always serve her creator, Emrys. She will show him the way.

Merlin is still the same. The yew has not reclaimed him as Arthur feared it could; he is exactly as he was when Arthur left him – eyes shut and peaceful. Arthur tentatively reaches up his hand to Merlin’s arm.

“Merlin! Merlin awake up.”

“Arthur.”

“I have Excalibur. Now what?”

He’s run all the way back, so intent on finding Merlin he had not thought about the implications of what he holds in his hand; a weapon. A sword designed for protection but also death. A quiver of worry strikes Arthur; will he have to fight some monster for Merlin’s freedom? He would do it in a heartbeat, but things never used to be that simple, there was always a catch. All to quickly his fears are confirmed.

“Plunge the blade into the trunk.”                                                                                   

_“What?_ Are you insane? That will kill you!” he says, alarmed. “Merlin, I’ve only just found you, I can’t lose you again.”

“It won’t.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I am the greatest sorcerer ever to walk the earth.” Merlin answers dramatically.

“I don’t remember you being this cocky.”

“Well, you were plenty cocky enough for the both of us. Besides, it did not do to brag about one’s magic back then.”

The reply sobers the mood and Arthur has to look away briefly before he can face Merlin again. “I’m sorry you had to hide. I’m sorry for everything.”

All mirth is gone from the response. “Don’t be. You have nothing to be sorry for. The world has changed. I want to be a part of it again. I want to be with you, again.”

I want that too, he thinks and I’ll face whatever I have to, to get it.

Arthur nods. He braces himself; rolls his shoulders, then grasping the hilt of Excalibur with both hands he swings her back and thrusts the blade into the tree.

The lighting blast throws him halfway across the clearing; the impact knocking the air out of his lungs. He lands hard on his back and it takes a moment for Arthur to gather his senses enough to roll onto his hands and push himself up. He half-runs, half-staggers over to slumped, naked figure on ground.

“Merlin!”

Merlin’s skin is marked by ash. There are some scratches and welts, but he is completely whole and separate from the smouldering tree that looks like it’s been hit by lightning.

A fine smoke fills the clearing. There is the distinctive smell of burnt timber and the air holds a static charge, but none of that matters. Merlin is free.

Merlin’s limbs are supple again, but after years of being immobile he seems to have forgotten how to use them. Arthur pulls Merlin fiercely to his chest, wrapping his arms tightly around this precious gift.

“Merlin.”

A hand snakes round his waist.

“You came back.”

Arthur can feel Merlin’s chest vibrate as he sobs and digs his fingers into Arthur’s spine, pulling at the fabric of his hoodie and twisting it in his hands.

“You came back,” he cries, repeatedly beating Arthur with weak fists.

Stroking calming circles on Merlin’s skin Arthur whispers, “Of course I did, you idiot. I would do anything for you.”

 

He’d never really said it explicitly back then, but he thought Merlin would have _known_ how he felt. Words never came easily to Arthur but actions did and his spoke for him, at least he thought they had.

Merlin stops. He breaks free of Arthur’s hold, pulling away enough to face him. His eyes are red and puffy, his skin streaked with tears, but it is the most beautiful sight Arthur has seen.

_“Me?”_

“Yes, _you,_ Merlin. When Albion’s need is greatest.”

“No.”

Perhaps Merlin really didn't know how Arthur had felt about him, and the thought hurts. “My memories only came back when I found you, it has to mean something.”

“I waited, Arthur. You were gone for so many years. Centuries! Wars came and went and still you didn’t return.”

“Did you think I wouldn’t?” Arthur asks quietly, his hand brushing against Merlin’s face.

Merlin doesn’t’ answer straight away, then barley auditable he croaks. “Sometimes.”

“Merlin…” Arthur doesn’t know what to say, or how to put things right. He had no control on when he had been allowed to come back yet he felt guilty for it all the same. Until today he’d been oblivious to his previous life; he’d only ever had whispers of the echoes of the past. It had been a very different experience for Merlin.

“I got lonely.”

“I’m sorry.” Arthur begins to tug at Merlin to move. “I’m sorry I couldn’t protect you. I never thought -”

_It was all his fault, wasn’t it? Merlin let his guard down, stopped paying attention and somehow got enchanted, entrapped and punished. Who could have done it? Morgana was dead, and Viviane was nothing like the legends portrayed her. Who could have hurt Merlin this way? What if they were still here? What if they came back?_

“No.” Merlin grasps Arthur's arm staying his movement. “Just hold me.”

“But… Arthur glances around anxiously.”

“There is nothing that can hurt us here.”

“What are you talking about, Merlin? You just spent goodness knows how long trapped in a goddamn tree! I’m not going to let it happen again.”

“It won’t.”

“How can you be so sure? You’re not invincible, neither of us are,”

Wasn't that the truth. Arthur rubs at the scar on his side.

“Because…” Merlin looks away, licking his lip.”

“Because?” Arthur offers.

“I did it.”

The revelation is like a punch to the stomach.

“What?”

“It was me. I trapped myself in the tree, it was _my magic, my spell_.”

Arthur shakes his head.

“I did it for you.”

Arthur doesn’t know what to say he just stares in shock. _“You_ did it?”

“Yes”

_“Why?_ Why would you do that?”

“For you. It was only ever for you.”

“For me? Even after I was gone?”

Merlin nods, burying his head against Arthur’s chest.

After a moment Arthur lean’s back and lifts Merlin’s chin with his hand, forcing him to look at him. “Tell me what happened.”

Merlin’s breath hitches and Arthur thinks he’s going to refuse or try and change the subject like he so often did in Camelot, always to avoid talking about himself but he doesn’t, not this time.

“I couldn’t stand it any longer. I was never as strong as you were. The pain of waiting became too much. I’m sorry.” He wipes his face with his hand, composing himself before continuing. “I retreated into the woods, withdrew into my own mind – it’s a dark place, Arthur – I relived my failures, missed opportunities. I was no longer sane. I went years without human contact, I would have appeared deranged and erratic to anyone that came across me. It had to stop. I had to find a way to protect myself from the world until you were ready to return.”

Those damn legends maybe weren’t so wrong after all. Arthur had dismissed the tales of the mad-hermit, Merlin – he did not recognise that but there was a lot he’d not known about Merlin, a lot the man had hidden. _How could anyone cope with such things; to live so long and endure so many losses and such grief?_ His father certainly had not in this life or the previous one.

“You were always stronger than me Merlin, I was the one who was never brave enough to tell you. I can’t imagine what it was like for you, how to manage something like that.”

“I am magic, _Arthur_ , I am part of the sea, the sky, the rocks. What better way to wait for you than become part of that world? It allowed me to sleep, to heal and recover.

Merlin takes a deep breath, “dod yn ôl at fy nghoed" he says in a deep baritone voice that makes the hairs on the back of Arthur's neck stand to attention.”

“Dragon tongue?” Arthur ventures tentatively, clearing his throat. He had worked out Merlin was a dragonlord. Without the distractions of impending wars and people trying to kill him every week, Arthur has become quite perceptive.

Merlin pauses, he looks right at Arthur biting his lip, then his eyes sparkle and he breaks into an enormous grin.

It a truly glorious sight, and one that all but disappeared the last year he spent with Merlin in Camelot.

“Welsh, actually.” he says trying to return to a neutral expression and failing miserably.

“Of course.” Arthur says flushing – _not that perceptive then._

“It means ‘a return to a balanced state of mind’, but literally it means to ‘return to my trees’.”

Arthur shakes head completely dumbfounded,“It worked then?” he says quirking an eyebrow.

“Yeah, I think so.”

This strategy was madness, utterly brilliant, but stupidity in the extreme, what if the wood had been destroyed? He wants to scream at Merlin for taking such a risk.

“A yew tree will live for thousands of years. It is toxic, so no one will touch it. The druids revered it and is steeped in mystery and superstition that has persisted for centuries – it was the perfect choice, a perfect protection.”

Arthur smiles. He has to hand it to Merlin. It was very clever – devious, even! But Merlin always had been, hadn't he? He had played the hapless fool, but underneath he was no such thing. He was brave, wise, determined… and he had sacrificed so much. Too much.

“All this time?” Arthur shakes his head. “Merlin, I’m twenty-five, you could have been free years ago. I played here as a child, I must have run past hundreds of times!”

“You weren’t _ready_ Arthur. A child could not have coped with those memories – they would have destroyed you. You had to become your own person, Arthur. I could not be to you then what I want to be to you now.”

‘ _What I want to be to you now?’_ Could that mean what Arthur thought it did? Back in Camelot, he’d been happy, or at least he thought he had. Guinevere was the love of his life. But… but Merlin was there too, always – they'd been inseparable and he'd shared things with Merlin that no one else knew. He’d not recognised those feelings for what they were, not until the end, when it was too late. The modern world is different; he knows what his preferences are. He hasn’t had any serious relationships yet, he’s never found quite what he was looking for. But what if he had settled for someone, knowing they weren’t the one, but they were good enough? Would Merlin have let that happen a second time?

“I went away, Merlin. What if I’d never come back, what then?”

“You would have always come back to Camelot. It’s your home.”

“It’s _not_ Camelot anymore!” Arthur shouts in utter exasperation. Their reunion could have been missed; he’d had to think long and hard about returning to England when his father died. The thought he could have walked away is terrifying.

“It is. Camelot is in here,” Merlin places his hand over Arthur’s heart. “And so am I.”

Arthur presses his hand over Merlin’s, just holding him.

Completely deflated, Arthur finally says, “I’m scared.” _Does Merlin want him this way? Surely he does and yet he’d misread so much in the past, invested in the wrong people when the right one was under his nose the whole time._

“Don’t be.” Merlin takes both his hands and he’s looking at him with hope, his eyes are shiny and bright and a small smile plays on his lips. “This is our second chance, Arthur, we’ll face whatever the gods have in store together this time. No secrets, no barriers.”

Merlin really is a beautiful man, both on the inside and out, and Arthur doesn’t want to regret not telling him so this time round.

“No barriers?”

“None.”

“Then is it alright if I do this?” Arthur places a delicate kiss on Merlin’s lips.

Merlin returns the kiss, then pauses to say, “It’s more than alright. I’ve been waiting thousands of years for you to do that!”

He grasps Arthur's face with his hands pulling him into his lips, then pushes them both to the ground.

They are oblivious to the world. Leaves and vines weave together to form a blanket and cover the pair, as if Mother Nature herself is giving them her blessing.

Excalibur breaks free from the smouldering yew tree and returns to the crystal cave.

Shoots appear in the hollow burnt-out trunk of the ancient tree. It is a sign of rebirth and growth. The yew will be strong again, just as Arthur and Merlin will be strong again. The gods have agreed: whatever their mistakes, they paid the price for them and then some. Over a thousand years of separation is penance enough. Arthur and Merlin are no longer beholden to destiny, they are free. This time, it is their time.

The End

              [](https://imgur.com/uAvXpHy)   


	2. Art Only

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Title page, three further pastel drawings and a divider

[ ](https://imgur.com/MnPEBfa)

[](https://imgur.com/P5nHfqP)[](https://imgur.com/rAJGMaA)

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for taking a peek. I hope you have enjoyed what you have read and seen. I certainly had fun creating this and did my best to answer the original gift request which was as follows:  
> In the ancient woods on the Pendragon estate, Arthur stumbles across the Crystal Cave, where legend has it that the sorcerer Merlin was trapped long ago. Historical or modern AU. Reincarnation?


End file.
